Tiny Bluet (Houstonia caerulea)

If only the flowers, little as they are,
could know how deeply wounded is my heart,
they would weep with me
to heal my sorrow.

If only the nightingales knew
how sad and sick I am,
they would gladly pour out
their refreshing song.

If only they knew my woe,
those golden stars,
they would come down from aloft
and speak comfort to me.

They can none of them know,
one only knows my sorrow;
she herself has made the rent,
has rent my heart asunder.
Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)

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